Miles From Where You Are
by Mellaithwen
Summary: Character Death. Post Devil's Trap. Nothing like a good drink to take the edge off, huh Dean?


**Miles From Where You Are  
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**By Mellaithwen**

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**Rating: T**

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**Genre: Angst/Drama**

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**Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, and the CW, not me. **

**Summary:** **Character Death.** _**Nothing like a good drink to take the edge off, huh Dean?**_

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Moving on, to Dean, means getting in his car, pushing the pedal down as far as it will go and speeding down the highway with the music blaring through opened windows, and the wind sweeping past his face, reminding him that he's alive, that he's breathing, and things can't be that bad.

He tells himself that things are better now. He reminds his doubts and fears that the demon is dead, and his own heart still beats.

Sam's too.

But then he remembers the trip back to Lawrence, and longs for yesterday.

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Sam helped him into the car, but Dean wants no help getting out.

He doesn't want to show their father his weakness, even now. He's holding on to the car with a vice-like grip, his knuckles turning white as he fights for balance. He needed Sam's shoulder to shuffle down the corridors, into the lift and out, and as far as the car park where he groaned at his brother's choice in automobiles and muttered incoherently.

Sam hears Impala, in a sadder tone than usual, and sighs wondering why Dean will show his grief for the car, but hides the grief for...

He wonders when did it become so painful that even he could not think it aloud, but his thoughts are cut off by a whimper when Dean puts one foot forward, trying to walk, and his body decides otherwise.

He ignores the glare when he rights Dean, stepping back, allowing him to do this alone as he wishes, but he still hands him the cane the hospital gave him, and Dean hates himself for taking it, much more for using it. He hobbles to his direction, leaning on the cane, and stepping through crisp green grass. Not yet muddy from the rainfall that's sure to follow. He can smell the ozone in the air, and wants to laugh at the irony. Though really what did he expect?

He doesn't look at the stone for long, he doesn't need to, and the words are simple, nothing unorthodox, nothing out of the ordinary, a complete contrast to everything his father ever was, or was for the last twenty years at least. Just the name that had been there for over the hunting years of the Winchesters, followed by another, more recent, perhaps of a greater loss. Two lovers, two parents, two deaths too soon.

He stands, still, and discards the cane when he falls to his knees. Sam steps forward, but thinks better of it as he continues to watch. Dean's doubling in on himself, his head in on the ground, his hands burying into the soil, into the grass and mud, grasping at anything, grasping at straws.

His head is spinning and his brother is leaning, waiting, on a car that isn't black, that isn't sleek, and has no history behind it. There are tapes under the passenger seat, somehow salvaged from the wreck of his baby. There's a gun in the dash, and even more in the trunk, again, all that was salvaged from the crash.

It doesn't matter that they have _that_ much holy water on them or _that_ many rounds of rock salt in _that_ many shotguns. They won't bring back the dead, and too many of them have died already. The salt will repel them, the shotgun will shock them, and the holy water, he's noted as of late, is worth jack shit when you really need it.

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He's alone in the motel room, a fact that has been freaking him out recently. He's hunted on his own before, but somehow, he's never felt as alone as he does now.

Jim, Caleb, Dad, _gone_. The older hunters Dean knew they were closer to were dead. Men who had played a pivotal part in his upbringing. Others remained, yes, Bobby who he had met all of three times, and a select few of Dad's friends, that were more anonymous sources with names and nothing more.

And Sam.

The first time, Sam was trying out normalcy, a phase he would soon outgrow and come crawling back to them. And though he wanted it, Dean never expected it; but now he sure as hell won't. Sam's decision was final. The demon was gone, his vengeance was satisfied, and school beckoned again, begging to be finished.

Maybe then...no. _Just no_.

Dean unfolds the map tucked into his jacket pocket. He spreads it out across the floor. Smoothing down creases as he does so, and reaching for his duffel bag and shotgun to keep the edges held down. He scans it for a while, and makes dots with his pen without thinking. It's only when he leans back he sees the distinct path from here to Sam. An almost straight line cutting across the landscapes in red, straight to Palo Alto.

Maybe he plans to drive there. He knows he hasn't strayed to the sunshine state with the rebuilt Impala yet, and he wonders if Sam would want to see the hard work Dean put in for the last few months, to get the car up and running. Their family car.

But Sam's never really gotten the significance like Dean does, and he stares at the red line, lets his fingers brush over the California highways, wondering if he'll ever take those roads with something more than trepidation. He's only four finger lengths away from Sam, and when he thinks about it like that, it doesn't seem so bad.

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Sam's been trying, he really has. He's been working, and studying, and spending practically every waking moment with his nose planted in a book, but the words get away from him. Underscores repeat themselves, and the paragraphs jump on board the magic carpet and whisk them away from prose and punctuation and—

And this is why staying up until 3am, staring at the same page for over an hour, pausing only to kill the most recent fly that has perched itself on his knuckle, isn't good for the mind. Because he's a student at law school, and law students, pre-law graduates, should really be going over the constitution in their head, rather than imagining each and every amendment flying away to the land of...uh...

He takes another swig of his stale cold coffee, but his fingers are pinching his nose, and to him it tastes just the same as the hot coffee might do; without the burning of course.

No scalding down the back of his throat that reminds him of his eighteenth birthday, only it wasn't coffee then, it was whisky, and he and his brother weren't so much celebrating Sam's drinking habits (since he had yet to turn twenty-one) but rather the law now smiling down on Messrs Sam and Dean Jones. Two young men, both of which—well over twenty-one, and fully prepared to showcase such things as they brandished their ID's (fake) paid with their credit cards (also, quite fake) and told stories of happier times with smiles on their faces (I'll leave that one up to you.)

In a nutshell, they got quite drunk.

And stumbled back to their motel room, glad that their reason for going out at all was a lack of John Winchester to get on their tails for such _reckless behaviour in the middle of a hunt, boys, I thought I raised you better than this_.

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Dean remembers when his thoughts were garbled worries of _Dad's missing you've gotta help me find him_, and _Sam, you okay?_

He had no idea then, on that night in November that that moment was the catalyst. He'd had no idea that it was his decision that could change it all. If he'd left then, who knows what could have happened. Deaths could not be prevented, if your name is on the list there's no removing it. Nothing without consequence at least, but their means could change entirely.

Yes, Sam would have lost her, but not to the flames that beckoned.

Fire on the ceiling could become a hit and run, if Dean had stepped back. If Sam had told him to leave, a healed heart condition would become a forgotten burial, in a town where no one would even remember Dean's name. If he'd driven through to Jericho without any pit-stops internal bleeding might have become the least of his worries.

One step, one doubt, and it could have all changed. Enough to bring him to his knees in front of the demon, dying, alone and afraid.

But Dean's never been one to doubt himself, so why start now? Why bother looking back to the year their lives really took a beating? Why?

His thoughts aren't the same anymore, not even close. _Dad's dead Sam, how the hell can you stand there and justify going back to school?_

Dean's left to pick up the slack. To carry on with the hunt, and wants more than anything to visit his brother but he doesn't want to get a glimpse of the normal life for fear it will start to appeal to him. He'd be lying if the prospect of a future had never whispered to him with its silky sweet promises.

And if he saw Sam smile, happy, then there was no way he could force himself to leave. This life, this less than perfect here and now was all he knew, and all he dared know; because he could control it, understand it. Deal with it.

Whereas, truth be told, he'd never expected to live this long, not after that incident in Tennessee that actually made his father cry.

Maybe fate likes him? Maybe his father's too stubborn to let him die?

Maybe Dean's the stubborn one.

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The first bar Dean visits during his alone time, isn't really a bar at all. But it's warm with the heater turned on full, and there's more comfort in sitting in the front seat of the Impala than there could ever be on some stingy bar stool. There's no smoke, there's no suspicion. There's no pool to hustle and no woman to see granted, but there's beer. A good ol' six pack sitting on the upholstery next to him.

He never sees it as the crashed, wreck. And he tries desperately to forget his father crumpled, and, broken, bleeding, dead. He tries not to scream when he sees the demon, perhaps not the demon, but a demon, grinning from outside, and he pretends not to feel the panic that he felt then before Sam sprang into action.

He can still smell the blood when he sleeps in the backseat, so much so that he's surprised when he wakes up come morning.

He pulls the car in to the side, just on the outskirts of a nearby town. He's alone now. Alone in the Impala, and for nearly two years he's had his brother by his side, sometimes even their father.

Not now though. Now both of them are gone. John had warned him in his ridiculous speeches in daring to finish this indefinitely. Who needs a psychic brother when you've got a father who insists on lacing his every word with a heavy, damning sense of foreboding intertwined with the threat of _I'm ending it._

And Sam? He's told Dean twice now. Expressed his strong want to return to normalcy, safety, and school.

Dean had forced himself to not let them part on bad terms, and when he had felt the anger and betrayal bubble up inside of him; he had stopped himself with a false smile that made his heart ache every time Sam failed to see through it.

He joked away his fears with crude comments on Sam's college lifestyle in need of a revamp, and hidden his eagerness to finish the goodbye, with a feigned annoyance while he was in his brother's presence.

For someone who could see Dean's insecurities when dying, Sam was surprisingly lacking of perceptive ability when his brother was more lucid, and forcing his brother to leave. Or maybe he was just tired of pretending. Maybe he'd had enough of wondering which side of his brother he'd be dealing with today.

Dean couldn't blame him, not really.

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Sam wrinkles his nose at the strong aroma of the blend, and the memory of yet another lecture by a man long dead.

Dean of course, had blamed himself. Sam had been driving. A demon had been inside of a semi. Their father had been caught, possessed, and the demon inside of him had nearly killed Dean, but no, of course it was _his_ fault. How could it not be?

Sam's pretty sure that's why they started fighting. Every time Dean made a comment, or rather; didn't, Sam would tell him time and again that it wasn't his fault, and each time he said so, Dean saw it as pity. As lies.

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"He was on the point of impact, Dean." Sam had said, worried by the sudden onset of guilt from his brother.

"If I'd noticed sooner—"

"The demon might have killed you while I was checking the salt-lines."

"No, I could have saved him, and the demon would be gone."

"How Dean? The only way to kill it is with the Colt, and if you'd used it then, Dad still would have died."

"Then I should have sat in the front. Dad had a bullet in his leg; he should have been in the backseat."

"You had internal bleeding!" By now, Sam was screaming, and Dean continued to speak in his monotone whispers.

"No," Dean whispered, not denying the fact, just denying himself. "No." He whispered, and Sam heard it as _'it should have been me.'_

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Another town, another bar, another song blaring and Dean's own voice singing along. Another drive closer to Sam, and yet, never quite close enough. Another crossing over state lines, another drive by rivers, and countryside of to the right. But still so many miles to go.

He glances at his phone, flicks through the phone book, glancing at the small pictures that accompany each name, amused at the one he had changed to be Sam's. Spoon in mouth, and a sliver of drool escaping his lips as he slept on.

Dean finds it interesting that Sam, with his nightmares and his stubborn sleep deprivation always looked worse than his older brother, who in truth, hadn't slept peacefully since he was four years old. Since his mother had carried him up to his room after he had dozed off in his father's lap, watching old war movies on the living room floor.

He takes a quick look around when the breeze from the opened door makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He flicks his collar upward to the sky, watching vaguely as another person stumbled out of the bar; heading for home, or as close as they can get _to_ home with their breath stinking of whisky.

Dean prefers the small town bars. The ones found in the corners of town, squished between shadowed alleyways and road-side motels. He likes that no one there is a regular, he can tell by the body language. The tables and chairs are a few distance between the next lot. There are only a handful of people talking to each other, all of whom, if doing so, are on the same table, proving the point that they came in together.

The barkeep's eyes are sharp, watching each and every one of his customers, and there's a rifle propped up above the bar, that Dean knows isn't just there for show.

He knows he can walk in here, drink himself to death, and no one would even blink an eye. He knows if his cover slips, no one will point it out, and the bartender will keep his nose out as long as the cash handed over is genuine, and the attitudes are less than rude.

He leans against the bar, sitting atop the shaky stool, his legs propped onto the wooden brace between the legs, and his hands crossed in front of him, as he orders more.

The alcohol hisses and burns the inside of his throat like fire and flames within, and he gulps it down, and takes another swig from the bottle. He holds it tightly; in the same way he might grasp his gun, his personal hand gun, his own .45, more like an extension of his own arm than anything else. He tilts the beer to his lips, with the same careful precision he might take when re-loading silver bullets, slippery in the rain as the Werewolf's shadow bears down upon him, and he aims a mere second before the creatures teeth could meet skin.

He listens to the footsteps of the single waitress making her rounds. Hair tied back, and a pretty face void of make up. There's some kind of mutual respect in the ways he handles the drink before handing it back, enough to quell any thoughts of wolf-whistles from the village idiot. He hears the draft from outside breezing underneath the door, the swish of alcohol swirling and gulped, and his ears pick up on the conversation closest to him. A table with two occupants. According to them, or rather, the one of them, the big bang was a load of ego-centric bull created to fuel one giant conspiracy to stop the human race from learning the truth.

"And what's that?" Dean hears the friend ask, and when met with silence, he can practically see the knowing tap of the drunkard's nose, as he avoids answering entirely. But Dean doesn't look to make sure, he doesn't need to. He takes the glass, downs the drink, and toasts to the flaws of science and mankind alike.

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Sam's almost sad. He thinks about his first few months in college. So many people just like him, thrust into a new place, and a barrage of work forced down their throats. Some of them had even had similar fights before leaving for school.

Minus the ghost-hunting of course.

Now, he could see through it all. What was the point in making friends he may never see again once his education was done?

Now he felt like he didn't belong more than ever. He went to his classes, and left. That was all. He never stayed after class, and never made polite conversation with whoever was sitting next to him.

He got to his apartment, paid for with the various funds of the Winchester fraud system, and longed for his phone to ring.

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He's too drunk to be driving.

But that's just it, he's fairly sure he isn't drunk. The police would disagree, his little brother too no doubt, but the roads are barren, empty stretches of tarmac of emphasised loneliness, and all of Dean's thoughts are clear. Or at least, no more scrambled than usual.

Drunk or not, he has yet to have his fill. The drink isn't taking the edge off, because the edge is too vast across his pain. Fraying edges, giving way to cavernous cracks, proving for mental instability, the very foundations of his existence drowning.

But the edge is still ragged, and there's a bar just ahead; somewhere where he can sit alone, not a care in the world. Let his thoughts dwell on something other than the supernatural...

He almost laughs when the door swings open, and he sees the destruction inside. He almost laughs, but takes a deep breath instead. Even pissed, Dean Winchester can take a couple Vampires, especially with so many flammable liquids near. He's done the research, even managed to track down a few of the old hunters his father never mentioned. Asked, demanded to be told, and learnt from everything they could say.

Stakes don't work, he knew that, and he knew all about the cop-out where sunlight was concerned.

_Decapitation's the only way, unless..._

_Unless what?_

_Burn 'em. _

_Really?_

_It'd have to a pretty powerful blaze to stop them from getting out, but yeah._

He takes a moment, stares inside. There are five, and even unharmed, he could probably fight a good few, but not before getting killed himself, and there was no point in adding yet another body to the pile slowly growing at the back of the room. They'd taken the entire place. The bartender slumped over the bar, customers litter the ground, some near the doors attempting to escape, and still, the creatures of the night were feeding on the remaining morsels of blood left in the still corpses in their arms.

Beneath the fire alarm, hung by teetering string through jagged glass, is his weapon, waiting to be claimed, and used by experienced hands. He strides in, his confidence keeping himself hidden, as he takes it in his fingers, grasps the hilt hard, and jumps to action.

He swings the fire axe once, slicing through bottles hanging up on the wall, the alcohol spilling across the floor, splashing around the room, and still spinning, he aims higher. Both Vampires flanking him fall. Three left. One making a quick dash to the door and disposed of quickly and the two remaining still not attacking, and Dean knew why. They're eyes were wide, pupils dilated as though still reeling from the euphoric rush of the feed. Now was his chance. He takes hold of the holy water in his pocket, grabs it, and smashes it on the ground. It's not needed but it could give the fire that extra boost.

He jumps up from his position, sliding and rolling across the bar's surface so slick with alcohol and -he grimaced- glass, digging into the grooves of his muscles as he leaps for the door, grabbing the lighter in his pocket at the same time. As soon as he touches ground, he flicks it open, and watches in wonder as the flame ignites on his first try.

He tosses it to the bar, just as one of the Vampires gets too close and attacks him. He deflects the blows aimed for his head, but misses the kick in the shin, and his knee buckles as the flames crackle. On the floor once more, he ducks, and the Vampire's fist slams into the wall rather than Dean's head, and taking his chance, the Winchester shoves the Vampire backwards, pleased when the blood-sucking-creature falls back landing on his companion, and his arm catching fire.

The screams are clear, and the fires will destroy any traces of the un-dead, maybe even send a message to others in the area. But the inferno is strengthening. So much to burn, drinks, the floor, the seats, the-

He gulps almost at the sight.

The ceiling is on fire, and Dean's standing in the doorway, staring, as though waiting for the demon to rear its ugly head masked with the burnt flesh of its victims and black sightless eyes with glimmers of yellow deep within. He waits, when he knows there's nothing to see, and when his eyes flicker back to the fire closer to him, it finally occurs that maybe he should be running.

He turns to leave when his ankle is pulled, yanked so hard that the bone cracks and he falls to the ground. He cries out and is pinned by the burning Vampire, the fire surrounding them and burning embers beneath his back, still flaming, and burning through his clothes and skin.

For a moment, Dean wonders as the fangs stray close to him. He knows this is bad, he knows, but his struggles aren't enough, he sighs, aware that this was going to hurt.

He brings his legs from under him, curling and kicking out hard, throwing the Vampire back with a considerable amount of force, and he doesn't even wait for the screaming before dragging himself out. He can't get to his feet without the horrible pain, and there's no way he can hop all of the way to the Impala.

But he tries. He trips, and crawls, and drags himself to safety. When he falls, stumbles one last time, tears in his eyes from the sheer magnitude of the agony on his back from the burns, he's glad his leather jacket is in the car. Safe from the flames.

Shame about his skin though.

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Somewhere in the back of Sam's mind he's wondering if something's wrong.

It could be something dire, something life threatening, grievous.

It could be something trivial, something pathetic, and useless.

But he still wonders. He still sits there and lets his mind wander. Thinking _where is he?_ _How is he?_

Every now and again he'll see someone in California, recognise them and they'll greet each other, promise to meet up again, and be on their way. He thinks, taking in percentages and variables, how long it will be until Dean's the one he's bumping into, and promising to meet up with once more.

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When Dean wakes up, groggily gets to his feet, practically screaming, he feels the urge again to almost laugh. He can see the Impala. It's not far at all. But he's wary all the same; because there's no way this drive is going to be easy on his back. For a lazy moment, he trails fingers across smooth metal reminding himself that the Impala,_ so much more than a car, Sammy_, is fine, and there's not a scratch on her.

Nothing else in Dean's life is as lucky, any more.

He spreads the map out atop the car, every movement of his arms, jarring his shoulder blades as they pull at the scorched skin. He sees the distance between here and there in finger-lengths, sees the pathways hidden but accessible, feels the rivers and state line creases, and sees that the distance between him and Sam, isn't that distant at all.

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Sam's called his brother cell four times, because after the first answer phone message he knows he's being ignored. And after the third _'leave a message after the beep,'_ it changes to _'this phone is switched off,' _Sam gives up. Last time Dean had been the one to give up after so many missed calls, but Sam knows it isn't the same. Dean had dad, Sam had Jess.

Now they were both alone, but his brother was as stubborn as ever.

Maybe that's why he isn't expecting the knock at the door at five in the morning.

And at the same time, maybe that's why he _isn't_ overly surprised at why there's a knock at the door at five in the morning.

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Road signs blur, words mesh, and cement stretches ahead of him, and still he drives on. He keeps at it until he turns into the same street he arrived at years prior.

He sees the houses, the apartments, and the occasional student crossing his path. He sees trees and cars he remembers still, and he feels the fear of rejection creep up on him when he remembers Sam's reluctance many years ago.

The last time he had done this—parked outside of his brother's apartment—he had been younger, and their father was _missing_, just missing.

He moves stiffly out of the car, and tells himself to not be such a coward every time he lets his hand fall to his side_ before_ pressing the buzzer rather than after.

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"Dean!" Sam beams when he sees his brother's face out of the shadow of the doorway.

Then frowns almost instantly.

He's been waiting for Dean to appear, practically begged him to visit now and again, but there's something wrong, and Sam knows it's his brotherly intuition screaming in his ear rather than his psychic tendencies he's been subconsciously trying to destroy.

Sam steps back, fully intending to let Dean into his small apartment, but his brother has other ideas, and as he dares take one foot forward, his body betrays him, and he's falling before he can stop himself. But this time, Sam's there to catch him and the dark isn't so dark at all.

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"What the hell happened?" Sam asks when Dean comes around to find himself being manhandled into the living room. He doesn't dare fidget—aware that any movement could make him scream. Instead he lets his taller, younger brother drag him to the couch, asking questions with nothing but worry in his heavy tone.

"What's a guy got to do to get a beer around here?" Dean mutters, just loud enough for Sam to hear. And heed as he heads for the kitchen in search of the more extensive first aid kit.

When Sam comes back into the living room, and puts the bottle within reach on the table there, he sees how stiffly Dean sits on the sofa, how much his jaw is set, and eyes hard. But despite it all, the oldest Winchester can't control the pallor of his skin, and Sam knows it's bad.

He's gentle, careful, but Dean still flinches at the touch. The burns are more superficial than anything else. They'll heal, and the scars will fade, and Dean can forget that he ever got drunk enough to give his reckless ideas time to flourish.

"What happened?" Sam asks for the umpteenth time and Dean growls in a warning that does nothing to deter Sam's determination.

"What happened?" He asks again, and Dean flips him off. The angry gesture is lost as Dean's shoulder blades bring a new wash of agony, and he clutches the bottle of beer tightly before taking a great swig.

"You'll regret that in the morning," Sam says simply. He could smell the drink on his brother's breath in the doorway, but he's always known that Dean never dares exceed any limits.

Then again, Sam realizes, that was when their father was there to instill authority.

Dean lifts his head, and gives Sam as level a stare as he can muster when staring at three blurred figures rather than one, wondering if it's the drink catching up with him, or the burns.

"I regret everything in the morning, Sammy. Its part of waking up and realizing this," he gestures around him unsteadily, "wasn't a nightmare."

He lays his head back down, and mumbles, "This is real."

It's the sadness in his tone that shocks Sam, and Dean falls asleep before registering the wide eyed brother, surprised at the intimate detail Dean has just spoken aloud.

There are only two things that will make Dean Winchester open up. Injuries and an excessive amount of alcohol. Sam prefers the latter, and he's pretty sure Dean hates both.

No amount of alcohol would chase away the nightmares that haunted him each and every night. No amount of pills would kill the pain, but he'd take them all the same, hoping that they would fill up the void that was now his soul. And for a moment, sometimes more, he'd be numb from it all, and he would stumble along through his, now, meaningless life, until finally it would win, it would bring him down to his knees, with no one left to catch him as the dark abyss loomed beneath, beckoning. Always beckoning...

But then there's Sam, standing there with breakfast, and what looks to be the great Winchester hangover cure their father introduced them to on Sam's nineteenth birthday, and Dean thinks to hell with it, the darkness can wait a little while longer.

**-Fin**

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